


Roadrat Ficlets

by Thorinsmut



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Mini fics, One-Shots, So Much Crime, imported as tumblr takes a swan dive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-09-17 01:46:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16965372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorinsmut/pseuds/Thorinsmut
Summary: A place to put my tumblr shorts of the Roadrat variety.





	1. explosives are a comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> angelicyourd requested Roadhog comforting Junkrat.
> 
> It went a bit… explosives happy.

They had to leave most of Junkrat’s explosives and bomb-making supplies behind.

The big heist went sideways in the middle. There must have been a backup silent-alarm system they hadn’t planned for. More guards. More police. Their escape route cut off, and their ‘home base’ compromised.

They got out. Of course they did. Roadhog had faced worse, and Junkrat was a force to be reckoned with even with minimal explosives. They used up every last bang Junkrat had in his arsenal before Roadhog got them to safety.

They weren’t even that injured. Roadhog had a few bullet holes, small caliber, nothing to worry about. Jamison was powder-blackened and singed, as usual, and Roadhog suspected he had some bruises.

Any fight he walked away from was a win, in Roadhog’s books, so he was fine.

Junkrat, not so much. He was shaking, twitching all over as he set traps and tripwires to secure the empty building they were squatting in for the night.

“Not safe,” Junkrat was muttering to himself, Roadhog caught the edges of it when he wandered close. “If you can’t blow them up when they come for you, you’ll die. Shut up. Don’t have any supplies anyway. Can’t make bombs. Not safe.”

As far as Roadhog could tell, Junkrat wasn’t very good at telling when his internal monologue had gone external, especially when stressed. It was hard to blame the kid for his paranoia. He was a survivor, tough as the radioactive rats he took his name from, but he was a lot easier to maim and kill than Roadhog would be.

Junkrat shied away from the can of soup Roadhog offered him—always a bad sign, when he was turning down food—and huddled in a miserable heap hidden in the shadows beneath the bike. He rocked slowly back and forth, gnawing on his flesh hand, eyes glinting scared and suspicious at every noise or moving shadow.

Roadhog finished his soup and tossed the can aside, then heaved himself to his feet. He ignored Junkrat shuffling away from him as he started going through his stuff on the bike. Finally, he came up on a glass bottle. It was his last bottle of soda pop, sweet and sugary and strawberry flavored. Roadhog had taken the whole vending machine’s stock on the tail end of a heist that went right. Roadhog popped the cap off and guzzled it down, burping the bubbles out, then went to his spare gas can.

Junkrat was on firm orders to _never_ touch it, on pain of death. The spare gas was for the bike and nothing else. Roadhog had made that very clear from the beginning. He could feel Junkrat’s eyes boring into him as he filled the bottle about 2/3 with petrol, hear the little whimpers of longing Junkrat probably wasn’t aware he was even making.

Roadhog handed the bottle toward him with a smile Junkrat wouldn’t be able to see through the mask. “Got a rag?” he asked.

Junkrat didn’t hesitate for an instant. He snatched the bottle from Roadhog’s hand and took a huge shaking breath as he clutched it to his chest like it was all the comfort in the world.

“You’re the best, Roadie! I can always count on you, mate!” Junkrat babbled once he’d gathered himself. “Ahaha, they won’t know what hit 'em!” He leapt up, thumb over the top of the bottle to keep the precious liquid from escaping, and started tearing through his things in the sidecar. Roadhog wasn’t even sure what all Junkrat was adding to the bottle. The Molotov Cocktails he’d used way back in the ALF were simple. Bottle, fuel, wick. Apply fire and throw.

Roadhog didn’t doubt Junkrat’s version would pack quite a bit more bang. He had a genius for it.

Junkrat subsided in his hiding space again, bottle hugged to his chest and a smile on his face. Roadhog sat back in his chosen spot to rest, and slung his arm around Junkrat’s scrawny shoulders when he crept out to join him.

“Liquor store a couple buildings down,” Roadhog commented. “Hit on our way out?”

Junkrat cackled. “Ohoho! There’s a lot of bang in one of those! I knew there was a reason I liked you.”


	2. penthouse suite bathtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic is for @hattedhedgehog who requested Junkers enjoying bath time
> 
> (So, this one was absolutely inspired by the Yuzu & Cocoa shower cream I got as a b-day present. It’s made by Lush and it’s amazing.)

Penthouse suites were Junkrat’s favorite luxury of the outside world.

So get this. Some rich wanker buys out the top of a building and puts a fancy-ass house in it, and then doesn’t even live there. How easy was it to—with the help of some bombs and Roadie’s hook—to get on top of the building and break in. So easy. They didn’t even have bomb traps to keep anyone out, when even even Junker babies knew how to make _that_ much protection for their hidey holes.

Junkrat wasn’t complaining, though. Not even a tiny bit. Made it easier to enjoy the rich people shit. This one was great. There were gold toilets that washed your ass for you, and a whole bar full of very explosive alcohols to pilfer, and enough pillows to build a huge fort out of to sleep in. Best of all—it had a tub the size of a swimming pool with all kinds of fancy nice-smelling stuff to go with it.

Baths were wonderful, in a weird kind of way. Junkrat’s old Mum and Mama had told him about them, with longing. So much clean hot water you could just float around in it. Junkrat had been thrilled to try it out once he was somewhere you could actually do that without all your skin falling off, and decided they were well worth the effort.

He’d filled the tub up as deep as it would go with steaming water, and was sniffing all the bottles to decide what kind of fancy he wanted to be today.

“Oy, Roadie. What about this one?” Junkrat asked, shoving a yellow bottle under Roadhog’s nose.

Roadhog was floating at the other end of the huge tub, his head thrown back over the edge, long silver hair loose and his mask discarded off to the side. He was never more beautiful than when he was relaxed like this. Junkrat wanted to lick him all over, hahaha.

Maybe later.

Roadhog sniffed deep, not opening his eyes. “Mm, yeah.” he decided, and Junkrat upended the bottle into the bath and followed it in to spread the sweet-smelling liquid around. It frothed a bit, and it made the water feel all silky and slippery. It almost covered up the gray swirl from all the soot washing off Junkrat’s skin.

“Yu-zu,” Junkrat read on the empty bottle. “Hoggy. Hogs. What’s a Yuzu?”

“Iza… fruit?” Roadhog said slowly, like he wasn’t entirely sure. “Citrus?”

Well, whatever it was it smelled delicious. Junkrat dunked himself completely under the water—careful to keep his eyes closed, he’d learned that lesson the hard way—and came up spouting soapy water. It did not taste as delicious as it smelled, but that was fine.

Roadhog sputtered. Junkrat must have gotten some on him, whoops! He grabbed hold of Jamison’s short arm to tug him over, and Junkrat went easily. Bath-cuddles was even better than bath splashing.

Roadhog rubbed at Junkrat’s back, getting the soot off to make him all shiny and clean at least temporarily, and Junkrat lay his head on Roadhog’s chest to relax into it.

Fancy penthouse baths were _definitely_ Junkrat’s favorite luxury of the outside world

.


	3. camaraderie between Roadhog & Zarya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for @femmeroadhog, who requested some camaraderie between Roadhog and Zarya.
> 
> (the roadrat is background in this one)

Zarya did not take to the pair of Australian terrorists at first.

Her association with Overwatch was tangential. Overwatch did not, officially, exist anymore. Zarya was not, officially, ordered to be tracking down Talon and especially Sombra. And yet here she was and here Overwatch was, working together for the same thing.

The Junkers were their own unit within the loose organization of Overwatch. Nobody interacted with them if they could avoid it. Junkrat was abrasive and unpredictably violent, and Roadhog was silent and deadly behind him.

Also, to put it lightly, they tended to _reek_.

Everyone avoided them, and Zarya did as well. She did not approve of them and their body count, their disregard for collateral damage. But then again, she didn’t approve of the Omnics in Overwatch either.

Working with the Junkers was inevitable, though. Zarya tried not to make her distaste known when Winston suggested them as part of her backup in an anti-Talon mission, but he must have seen something in her expression nonetheless.

“I know.” He sighed, taking off his glasses in a very human mannerism. “But for sheer firepower, the pair of them are hard to beat. Give them a chance?”

Zarya nodded once, and left.

In battle she began to see them as they were. Roadhog in particular. He laughed as he killed, and he laughed as he breathed his healing gas and bullet slugs rained out of his flesh. His body was the only shield he had, and he put it between Junkrat and danger without hesitation. No matter how much that must hurt.

His instinct was to protect, and that Zarya could respect.

She could respect how well he and Junkrat knew how to destroy turrets and omnics. She found herself throwing her shield around Junkrat when he was drawing fire and Roadhog was too far away, giving him the freedom to get where he could do the most damage—around Roadhog when he was the focus of attack, giving him the time he needed to heal and reload.

They were on Zarya’s team, and she looked after her team.

At the end of the day they recovered little information from the Talon base. The Australians, finding the salvage too light for their liking, stole an entire vending machine of candy on their way back to the transport. They tore it open to separate it out, each what he liked best, and Roadhog tossed Zarya a granola bar without a word.

She nearly did not catch it in her surprise. She knew at least a little of what they had survived in the Outback and Junker society. She knew they had lived on the edge of starvation. She would not have expected them to share, and she did not approve of the theft, but she _was_ starving after such a long battle. Zarya saluted Roadhog with the granola bar and ate it gladly.

When Winston debriefed her at the end of the mission, Zarya hardly hesitated to say she would work with the Junkers again. Winston’s surprise at that matched her own.

Working with Junkrat and Roadhog became an almost comfortable routine. Zarya came to depend on their cover fire—on Roadhog hooking enemies into range, on Junkrat’s traps protecting them from flankers. She found Roadhog trusting her to shield Junkrat when he could not, and placing his body between her and the enemy when she could not get her shields up fast enough. Side by side and with support behind them, she and Roadhog could plow through even the toughest enemy ranks.

They were a fine fighting unit, though they had never shared even a conversation.

And then Zarya was called back to Russia. Her mission to find Sombra was a much lower priority than the risk all of Russia faced in against a new wave of omnic attacks.

Zarya bid her farewells to all of her friends in Overwatch, the scientists she could talk advanced physics with, the soldiers she could share war stories with. All of them good people, and grown dear to her. It made leaving harder, but she would do what she must for her country.

Roadhog was the one who found her, late at night after everyone else was gone to bed and she was having a final high-protein snack alone in the kitchen. In the morning she would be gone, and she had never shared more than a handful of words with Roadhog. Still, she offered him an energy bar, and he took it readily.

They ate in silence.

“What would you do?” Zarya finally asked, when they were both done. “You fought Omnics in Australia. In the ALF. Do you have advice?”

“…don’t blow the Omnium,” Roadhog said, after a long deliberation. “Not worth it.”

Zarya snorted, not quite a laugh and too close to a sob. She’d turned her whole life upside down, joining the army to protect her country from the Omnics, and it didn’t seem like anything worked for long.

“Athena, cameras off,” Roadhog ordered as he fiddled, with his mask straps. He took it off entirely when Athena beeped to let him know the cameras were off. His face was just that of a man beneath it. Not the horrible disfigurement Zarya had sometimes wondered. Just a tired man with wrinkles that made him look older than his years and a few scars.

“You already know their weak points,” he finally said, like he was trying very hard to come up with advice for her. “Protect your mates—you’re good at that. Keep fighting.”

“You think we can win?” Zarya asked. “Humanity? Do we have a chance?”

Roadhog shrugged his heavy shoulders, head tilted up thoughtfully as he mulled it over. “Maybe. We’re like…” his lips lifted in a small smile. “ _Rats_. We survive anything, one way or another.” There was a softness to his expression Zarya would never have suspected of Roadhog. He must be thinking about Junkrat, child of the irradiated Outback. Roadhog’s eyes turned back down to Zarya. “People are worth fighting for. Find the good ones, stick by them, and don’t blow the Omnium core.”

Zarya nodded. It wasn’t much, but Roadhog had seen some of the worst humanity could suffer and _he_ thought they had a chance, no matter how small. There was some reassurance in that. “Thank you, Roadhog,” Zarya said.

“…Mako,” Roadhog—Mako—corrected. He smiled again, eyes on Zarya. His big hand lifted up and then, carefully, patted her shoulder. “Good luck.”

“Until we meet again, Mako.” Zarya patted Mako’s shoulder in turn. Two soldiers, old and young, and still fighting the same war. There was an understanding in that.

They went their separate ways, but Zarya chose to believe they _would_ meet again.


	4. horror, demons, possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hayseed and Butcher

They summoned a chaos demon.

The summoners were barely of age, desperate-eyed kids with too much pain and rage in their hearts for their years—but they _were_ of age. They were of age to make deals, they blood they offered was rich enough, and they had found the right words and symbols.

They summoned a demon, bound him into a one-armed scarecrow, named him ‘Hayseed’, and set him loose to torment those who had wronged them.

Too easy. Too _fun_.

They had no idea what they had unleashed. Hayseed started small—a horrifyingly-misshapen shadow following people at night, eerie laughter in the dark, deep scratches in disturbing patterns left on doors and windows. Enough to put people on edge, enough to feed off the paranoia and grow stronger.

Strong enough to eat. Pets and small animals, mostly, leaving artistic blood sprays, and gnawed bones arranged into threatening other-worldly sculptures.

The previously-sleepy little town _knew_ there was something wrong, and Hayseed was strong enough to bring misfortune upon the humans themselves. Broken break lines or suddenly loose wheels on bicycles and then cars, oil flare ups on stoves, light bulbs blowing in showers of glass instead of just burning out—and always at the most inopportune time. Hayseed did it all, and even that was only the start. Soon he could levitate things right in front of people—send knives flying through the air, make windows explode to impale people with the sharp shrapnel, and made sure he was seen. Nothing was quite so scary as looking down an empty hallway and seeing a lanky, too-thin human-like figure moving how no human could, and having it vanish when you blinked. No one in the town was safe from Hayseed’s reign of terror.

The summoners realized their terrible mistake. They tried to stop him, but by the terms of their agreement Hayseed had not completed his task. Even the summoners were powerless against him. The entire town was in a state of terror. When he was strong enough to directly possess people, having them contort and crabwalk and crawl around on ceilings and light on fire and that sort of thing, the summoners finally confessed what they had done to the people in power.

By then, it was far too late. Yes, the modern equivalent of a torch-and-pitchfork mob was dangerous, and they got lucky and did catch one of Hayseed’s legs in a bear trap, but being in a body stuffed with straw had it’s advantages. It was easy to leave the leg behind. And Hayseed was more than strong enough, by then, for the final part of his plan.

He hid in a little patch of weedy woods and summoned the Butcher. After all, the summoners hadn’t _said_ Hayseed couldn’t invite friends to the party.

Butcher, wonderful dependable butcher—huge and ferocious with his massive arms and hands and belly and the horned and fanged skull mask over his head. Hayseed giggled incessantly as the sulfur and blood scent of Butcher engulfed him.

“About time,” Butcher growled as he materialized, hefting his spiked hook.

“Oooh, Butcher,” Hayseed gushed, pouncing on Butcher to rub on him like a cat. “My beauty, my love, I’ve _missed_ you!”

Butcher’s big hand closed around Hayseed’s scrawny waist, holding him close. He pushed his skull mask against Hayseed’s burlap one, the smokey heat of their breaths mingling in the closest they could get while confined to physical forms.

“Who’re we after?” Butcher asked, the fire of his eyes burning through the holes of his mask.

“Anyone they ever thought wronged them,” Hayseed said, laughing breathlessly. They’d been fools, to give a chaos demon so much leeway. Not that he wouldn’t have found a way to weasel around a more narrow set of instructions. He bounced on his leg and the stick he’d used to replace the lost one, far too eager to hold still. “Everyone! Every last person in the town.”

Butcher laughed, big rumbling belly laugh, and Hayseed’s high shrieking giggles joined it as they turned in unison to look toward the town.

It wouldn’t be standing much longer.


	5. the coffee shop/student one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @carnagekiid on tumblr requested: college age coffee shop au with Mako as the part time barista/grad student and Jamie as an exhausted mechanical engineer major?
> 
> Coffee shop/school AU’s are super outside my wheelhouse, but I tried.

Mako didn’t envy the full-time students.

Going through grad school part-time suited him much better. He kept his cool, did things at his own pace. He’d get there eventually, but he was in no rush. His work/school balance was just right, as far as he was concerned.

Service industry work could be hellish, but for _some_ reason customers tended to be scrupulously polite when _Mako_ was staring down at them. The cafe was a cute place, and working there wasn’t bad. He liked that he could look out for the other baristas, too, and the owners would back him up if he had to eject a bad customer. Work was grounding, and the coffee shop being so close to campus meant he got to see all the madness of college life without being sucked into it.

Take the boy who always gave his name as “Junkrat”. He was known to blow through the shop at strange times in a flurry of manic energy. He took the biggest, sweetest, most caffeinated drinks, flirted outrageously with Mako, and sprang away again. He was skinny enough Mako suspected most of his daily caloric intake came from the coffee.

He never stopped moving. Always bouncing around on his mismatched legs. Always fidgeting with his mismatched hands. Wild flame-orange eyes always a little too wide, words a little too fast. Just _looking_ at him was exhausting. He tipped decently, though, and, well… it was kind of _nice_ to be called ‘angel’ and 'handsome’ and 'gorgeous’. So Mako was a little bit fond of Junkrat, even if watching him reminded him _exactly_ why full time college was a bad idea.

Mako might have watched Junkrat more than other customers. At first because his long pale body was only ever clothed in slightly too few clothes to be decent, and there was nothing wrong with admiring the view. As the semester wound up to finals week, everyone was more stressed. The coffee shop was overloaded with miserable students purchasing inadvisable amounts of caffeine, and everyone was on edge in class. In the middle of it, Junkrat seemed the same as ever—on the surface. Mako could see the frantic edge to Junkrat’s mania, though, the deepening circles under his vivid eyes, the droop of exhaustion those rare moments he was still.

Everyone was pushed to the edge. Junkrat wasn’t the only one. Mako just worried about him though. Wasn’t much he could do for him, as just his barista. He had his hands full with work, classes, and the students he actually TA’d for.

He tried to talk to him, in the brief moments he was coming through the line. Not that talking was his strong suit.

“New arm,” he noticed. He figured, if Junkrat didn’t want it mentioned, maybe it wouldn’t be such an eye-seering orange and yellow. It had an x-eyed smiley face sticker on it. “Cute.”

“Yeahyeah, haha,” Junkrat grinned up at Mako, but his whole body was faintly trembling. “Final project. It’s… it’s coming along. Yeah. It’s fine. Great. Wear testing. Probably needs more work but… Yeah, it’s fine. It’ll be fine.”

Mako held his hand out. Junkrat stared at it, tittering.

“Shake?” Mako prompted.

“Oh! Right, mate. Shaking hands. People do that.” He shoved his hand into Mako’s, and Mako shook it. The hand felt like metal, but it gripped with approximately average strength, and none of the joints pinched.

Mako released him, and gave him a thumbs up, which Junkrat immediately returned. “Seems good,” Mako said, and handed Junkrat his receipt and drink.

Junkrat puffed up with pride, eyes shining. “Good! It _is_ good, innit?” He grabbed his oversized drink, saluted Mako with it, cursed when some of it slopped out onto his shiny new hand, and was gone out the door.

In tiny interactions, Mako tried to brighten Junkrat’s days. He wasn’t sure how successful he was. He was glad when finals were over, and winter break started. Campus cleared out, the coffee shop only needed a single barista on duty, and Mako could mostly work on grading papers for the classes he was TA for instead of running off his feet for hours.

He wasn’t expecting it when Junkrat showed up. He got only a small mocha, called Mako 'the beautiful angel of caffeine, giver of the life-giving elixir’, said 'I love you’ when given his drink like a man who hadn’t slept in several days and didn’t realize what their mouth was saying, and then curled up in one of the cozy armchairs instead of bouncing away.

Within minutes, he was snoring. He was far from the first student to ever fall asleep in the coffee shop, but he was the _last_ one Mako would have ever expected it of. Junkrat snored exuberantly and loudly. It was oddly endearing.

Mako smiled to himself as he went back to his grading.

Normally Mako would have woken someone up after a little while, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to wake Junkrat. It wasn’t like there were any other customers for him to be disturbing, anyway. Mako let him rest, an ungainly heap of limbs sprawled in the corner, until closing time.

“Junkrat.” Mako shook his shoulder, and he woke with a snort and mild flailing. He blinked uncomprehending up at Mako. “Closing time.” Mako told him.

“Oh, right. Right.” Junkrat stood and stretched, arching and cracking his back. He rubbed his face and looked toward the clock. “Shit! Fuck! Missed my carpool! Gotta take the fucking shitty buses and take three times as long…”

“I’ll drive you,” Mako said, and then closed his mouth, because he hadn’t expected to say that out loud.

“Really, mate?” Junkrat beamed at him. “All right! I knew I liked you!”

Mako didn’t regret it. He gestured him to follow with a turn of his head, and led Junkrat through the staff room, grabbing his jacket on the way.

“I’m not to far, but I’ll pay gas money. What kind of car is…” Junkrat broke off with a gasp when he saw Mako’s vehicle. “…not a car. Hooley Dooley would you look at that hog! Second sexiest thing I’ve seen all day!”

“Only second?” Mako pulled his leather jacket on, and pulled the studded riding gloves out of his pockets. He was almost insulted. His bike was probably the best thing he owned.

“Third.” Junkrat’s voice was small and strangled. “After you, earlier, and you right now mate I didn’t know you could get any sexier!?”

Mako laughed, warmth blooming through him. They weren’t customer and service worker any more. They were outside their usual context, and now anything was possible. He quite liked where the possibilities might lead.

He settled astride the bike, patted the space behind him. “Ready, Junkrat?”

“It’s… it’s Jamie, actually,” Junkrat said, as he climbed behind Mako. “It was just a silly nickname because I wanted you to think I was cool and different and remember me? Hahaha?”

“All right, Jamie.” Mako grabbed Jamie’s hand, which was delicately resting on his side, and pulled it so he was much closer to Mako’s back. “Hold tight.” He bared his teeth, reving the engine. “You’re about to learn why they call me 'Roadhog’.”


End file.
